


never alone

by prosodiical



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Body-Sharing, F/F, Female Chara, Female Frisk, Manipulative Chara, Masturbation, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/pseuds/prosodiical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she moves your hands it feels like a distant thought, her fingers at the hem of your t-shirt as she lifts it off your head not quite a sensation of air. It's only once her eyes catch on your bedside drawer that you remember with a creeping sense of embarrassed dread what she caught you doing two weeks before. <i>No,</i> you think, as strongly as you can, and she laughs in your voice, entirely strange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never alone

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 한국어 available: [혼자가 아니야](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6371056) by [Osteophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osteophile/pseuds/Osteophile)



> Written for the Annual Femslash Kink Meme, prompt [here.](http://femslash-kink.dreamwidth.org/15813.html?thread=2192069)

The problem is: she's always there.

You're clenching the pen in your hand so hard it feels like it might break as your professor drones on: monster magic is dangerous, he says, it's no wonder we shut them away and you want to stab the end of the pen into his gut, watch the bleeding red wound as you twist it in but you can't tell if it's your thought or hers. She's an insidious lurking feeling at the back of your head when she isn't trying to make herself known, the dark creeping thoughts you would normally dismiss out of hand gaining traction and substance, making you doubt your own convictions. But you're determined, just as much as her; she only takes what you relinquish. _That's what you think,_ you think, and it's her thought as much as your own.

You focus on the lecture instead, the monotonous voice of a bigot and a hack and your notes are just a big black spill of ink on the page, nothing salvagable from the mess you've made. The girl next to you nudges you, whispers, "Hey Frisk, you okay?" and you glance at her and your mouth twists, half a smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

 

You give her time, sometimes, when you're tired or bored and there are no sharp implements nearby. Your parents were never present enough to think it strange that their only daughter would lock away all the scissors and the knives every weekend before sitting on the floor, where you'd try to sort out your boundaries in some hope she'd be more separate from you; instead, you became more and more the same. She'd pull out your hair and bite marks on your wrists when you didn't stop her, and when you did she liked yanking a brush through the tangle of your hair, staring at your face in the mirror and ignoring you behind her eyes. You've come to something of an agreement now, but it's been years of awkward bandannas and long sleeves in the making, and you're still not sure she won't just... jump.

Now, you regret thinking of it again; there's a growing resentment in your gut that you want to soothe away. But it's not far from your dorm room anymore, and your roommate's gone for the evening, so it's nothing to do what feels like the equivalent of falling asleep with your eyes open, dropping back and losing control.

She grabs the reins with a full-force jolt and you can almost feel the way your spine straightens, your expression goes flat. When she moves your hands it feels like a distant thought, her fingers at the hem of your t-shirt as she lifts it off your head not quite a sensation of air. It's only once her eyes catch on your bedside drawer that you remember with a creeping sense of embarrassed dread what she caught you doing two weeks before. _No,_ you think, as strongly as you can, and she laughs in your voice, entirely strange.

"Come on," she says, "at least try to mean it." She smooths her hands across your thighs, unclasps your bra and pulls it over your head, and you try to ignore the foreign heat growing between your legs as you push, just a bit.

It's your body, in the end, and she floods you with discontent as you take control and sit up, stare at your face in the mirror. You press your lips together and she thinks, quite deliberately, of the last time you thought you were alone: the furious flushing heat of arousal as you bit your lip and pressed your vibrator against your clit, your breathless orgasm, clenching around your fingers, immediately followed by her alien curiosity that made you want to hide your head in your hands for days. 

You give, just enough; she raises your eyebrows and looks in your eyes to you, somewhere underneath, and she's so tightly wound you wonder if it might help, then wonder if it's your thought at all. The corner of her mouth lifts and she says, "Please?" with all the appearance of sincerity except for the gaping hole where any feelings might be, and your gaze drops to her fingers, smoothing the front of your jeans. There's something: not just curiosity but a flicker of interest, desire, and you think you're being manipulated but you can't help but relent and fall back under her strange soft tendrils of want.

Now, given tacit permission, she explores your body carefully; she maps the soft curve of your stomach, fiddles with the button on your jeans and slowly drags them off, fabric peeling from skin. She's unused to the sensation of dragging her fingertips up your sides, huffs out a soft sigh when she rubs her hands over your breasts, cups them and squeezes them gently. You're unused to the foreign distant warmth of her arousal like a tingle up your spine and she smiles, half at your discomfort as she brushes her fingers across your nipples, then pinches them sharply, a spark of pleasure and pain; you gasp, but it might be her.

She bites your thumb when she brings her hand to your panties, already damp, and the soft breath and flush is all her when she brushes her thumb over your clit; you feel it like a burst of surprise. She shakes her head and smirks at you in the mirror, your cheeks pinked, and you think, a little pointedly, _you're not fooling anyone_.

"Oh, sure," she says, and pulls off your panties with an infuriating slowness, fondles your nipples, presses her thumb against your clit when all you want is more friction as she rubs her fingers up and down your folds, dragging in slick moisture. "It's not _me_ who just had to," and she pushes two fingers in, falls back on the bed with her sentence giving out, and you know she can feel your distracted amusement under the rising heat of arousal at every twitch of her fingers. "Like you don't want to - " she mumbles, and tugs - and the slow steady thrust of her fingers is suddenly immediate, the rub against your clit a jolt of sensation that your hips push into almost involuntarily, that makes you _want_. 

She bites your lip and fucks herself on your fingers, faster, harder and you don't know if it's you or her who's pressing forward, nails digging into your thighs but it's her burbling laugh that starts somewhere in your chest below the building growing orgasm that you're almost to the edge of and it escapes her in a burst, a gasp of sound and delight as she crests and clenches, throbs around your fingers, soaking them through.

She breathes in the aftermath, falls back into your head with a pleased, satisfied glow of a feeling and then it's you, your chest still heaving, trying to catch your breath and left with a profound sense of awkwardness you don't know what to do with, the burning memory of what you did and what she did all a mess in your head. You fall back on your pillow and try to enjoy the afterglow, but the problem is: she's always there.

The thought you have then is, you hope, all hers: _Oh, I can't wait until next time._


End file.
